


Not Supposed To Be The Same

by Snowfilly1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Hand Jobs, Kinktober 2020, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Post-Scene: Rome 41 AD (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27011845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfilly1/pseuds/Snowfilly1
Summary: ''M sorry. Want me to leave?''What? No, Crowley. You'll do no such thing.'The morning after their meeting in Rome, a distraught Crowley comes looking for Aziraphale. He'd been put on Earth to protect and guard, after all. Would it be so awful to extend that care to the demon?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 183
Collections: Ineffable Kinktober 2020





	Not Supposed To Be The Same

**Author's Note:**

> Historical accuracy? What's that? Missing in this one, that's what. 
> 
> This was originally written as a kinktober fill for 'clothed sex' and just kept growing, so posting it as a separate story. Crowley is not in a good headspace for this one, but the sex is very consensual despite that. 
> 
> Title is from the song 'Fuck Forever' by Babyshambles.

Crowley comes looking for him, the next morning, and that's the strangest change in their relationship yet. 

He can sense the demon's presence before he knocks on the door. And that's strange in itself; a hesitant knock as though he doesn't actually want to be heard. 

'Come in,' and he bites down 'my dear.' Really, how could he even think of saying that to a demon?

Crowley pauses, stands in the doorway of the inn's tiny room. He's still wearing the dark glasses and the mish-mash of styles that had looked so strange to Aziraphale's eyes last night, although the laurel wreath is gone. He looks completely, utterly wretched. 

'Crowley?'

The demon shakes his head, although Aziraphale can see it's more an attempt at stopping conversation than anything else. He'd thought things were alright last night. He'd thought it was all fixed. 

'Are you warm enough?'

There's a fraction of an expression change; probably Crowley remembering the Ark and how terribly he'd suffered with the cold there. 

The fire in the grate shivers into life. 

'Come in, dear. Come and get warm.'

Crowley drifts into the room, leaves the door open - Aziraphale closes it with a thought - and comes to stand close to the fire. There's nothing subtle about the way he turns so he's almost facing away from Aziraphale. 

He thinks that, if Crowley still had long hair, he'd be pulling it forwards to obscure his face. 

'Are you hurt?'

'Nah, angel, I'm fine. Stop worrying.'

He guesses, but doesn't say, that that is the first outright lie Crowley has ever told him. 

Snakes can be hypnotised, charmed. He's not sure if the same applies to snake demons, but Crowley stares into the flames for a long, long while. Everything about him screams hurt, lonely, injured. 

Last night, talking had helped. Taking Crowley to dinner with him, walking back through the warm Roman evening, laughing together, had helped. Now he wonders how much of a mask Crowley had thrown on, anxious to please, anxious to be alright. 

He miracles some tea in existence; it'll taste burnt and bitter, but maybe it'll drag Crowley back into this world for a while. Whatever, it gives him an excuse to go and stand alongside him, take his long hands and fold them carefully around the fine cup.

'You don't have to.'

'I've got some honey here if you want it. Get rid of the miracle taste.'

'Don't worry.' Crowley tosses it down in a few mouthfuls, throat working convulsively. It takes Aziraphale a moment to realise he's crying. 

He hadn't known, not for sure, that demons could cry and he's not sure why he finds it surprising. He's seen Crowley joyful, infuriated, anxious, sickened, fascinated and almost everything in between; it's just that old whisper from Heaven that demons are creatures of pain and misery anyway, why would they be affected by it?

But, oh, Crowley is. 

Should he say something? Go and stand close to him? His initial reaction is that he wants to hold Crowley, pull him close. It's something he's seen the humans do. 

''M sorry. Want me to leave?'

'What? No, Crowley. You'll do no such thing.'

He does go over now, slips an arm around Crowley's shoulders. His bones, splinter-sharp, are harsh even under the linen of his tunic. The demon half turns to him, which makes it into more of a hug than anything else, awkward because of their height differences and because Aziraphale really doesn't know where he ought to put his arms, but Crowley clings to him. 

He fights against the instinct to bring his wings out, wrap them both safely in white feathers. 

Crowley is almost silent. Aziraphale guards him, as best as he's able. As though he's meant to protect him, the same as the humans. 

***

They don't talk about it afterwards. Or at least, Aziraphale asks and the demon hisses something that's more embarrassment than anger, and so they don't talk about it. 

He goes as far as asking if Crowley would like to come out with him for lunch and wine at one of the tavernas, and gets another hissed reply. 

'Would you like to stay here for a while?'

There's a long silence, and then Crowley jerks his head in something that might just be a nod. 

So they do. Aziraphale wanders downstairs later and comes back with wine and bread and meat, which Crowley says he doesn't want and then eats almost all of it. He sits on the bed and Crowley sprawls on the floor, leaning against the bed so they can't really see each other.

The noonday sun makes the room almost unbearably hot; he uses a miracle or two to keep the breeze flowing through. There's something happening not far away, mingled cheers and shouting drifting down to them. As the day eases on, the shouting takes on a panicked quality and he can hear metallic sounds that never bode well: swords being drawn, alongside the clatter of shod hooves on hard roads.

Crowley very pointedly doesn't look up or around at any of it. Keeps the conversation going with almost frantic enthusiasm, as long as Aziraphale doesn't mention anything that's happening outside their window.

If it wasn't for Crowley's evident distress, it would have been a fairly pleasant afternoon. He's wanted to spend time with him, just talking, for a long while now. To learn the ways of demons in more detail, of course, not for pleasure; except that Crowley is just good fun to talk to. He's travelled to more places than Aziraphale, seen more and done more, and remembered most of it as well.

So maybe he can pass it all off as learning about Earth. 

***

Darkness falls as quickly as it always does around the Mediterranean sea; one moment, the room is full of warm twilight colours and the next, he can hardly see Crowley's outline at the foot of the bed. The air is still warm. 

'Let me tempt you to dinner again?'

Crowley makes a disgusted noise that he thinks is about oysters. 

'We can go somewhere different, my dear, if you like.'

'Trust me, angel. Don't wanna be out there at the moment. Stay here.'

He thinks it might be the first thing Crowley's ever asked him. Such a simple, human sounding request and he finds himself vowing that he'll ask give the demon whatever he asks for. 

They do, and Aziraphale very carefully doesn't listen to the growing unrest outside. If he taps the wine jug when Crowley isn't looking and suggests that it might like to stay full tonight, however much they drink from it, the demon doesn't appear to have noticed. 

They're discussing if penguins are birds when Crowley yawns and then apologises. It happens again a few minutes later, and Aziraphale makes his mind up. 

'Come here, Crowley.'

The demon - and that's a term he's finding harder and harder to keep in mind, he's just Crowley - pushes himself to his feet and stares at the bed as though checking exactly what Aziraphale means. 

'You're tired. Do you want to sleep here tonight?'

'Got my own place. Can go.'

'You've been here all day. You said you didn't want to go out. Just stay here and sleep for a while.' He doesn't add 'and I can stand guard,' but the feeling is there. He doesn't want to examine why he suddenly wants to protect a demon. 

There's no further checking, just Crowley kicking his shoes off and throwing himself onto the bed. He's strangely close to Aziraphale, close enough that he can see the worry lines on his friend's face. The glasses can't be comfortable but he leaves them on. 

'Would...oh, it doesn't matter.'

'Of course it matters, dear boy. What was it?'

'Would you stay?'

It's easy to agree, easy to slide his hand across to rest lightly on Crowley's. Not so easy to ignore the strange pleasure that comes with that touch. 

***

He spends a while watching Crowley, who doesn't seem to actually sleep at all. He tosses and turns, pulling at the toga he's still wearing, dragging at the blankets every time he moves. It looks the furthest thing from restful that Aziraphale can imagine. 

The next time Crowley turns over, it's with a deep sigh and a muttered 'for fucks sake.'

'Crowley?' 

'Sorry, angel. Didn't mean to disturb you. I'll be quiet.'

The resignation in Crowley's voice hurts to hear. 'It's not that, dear. What's wrong? What can I do?'

Crowley sighs into his pillow. Arrow quick, he yanks the glasses off and throws them against the grate, where they shatter. 'Can't tell you. Demon stuff.'

He touches Crowley on the shoulder, feels how tense his muscles are. Crowley leans into the contact. 

'I can't, angel. They've given me jobs to do and it's going to be shit and I don't want to do it, and...'

There's a stream of words from Crowley then, only a few which he can pick out. Most of them are apologies, denials, a wish that things could be different. 

'I'm sorry,' Aziraphale tells him, although he's not sure why. Sorry that Crowley has to do these things? Sorry that he's not allowed to share the weight of it? Sorry that he's an angel, he's meant to make things better and there doesn't seem to be a damn thing he can do for the demon?

'It's my job. Not like it matters.'

Crowley's bunched a load of the blanket in one fist. He's squeezing it hard enough that Aziraphale can see the skin of his knuckles fading to whiteness. 

'It matters,' he tells him. 

It feels disconcertingly easy to pull Crowley into his arms. Even stranger that he comes willingly, gratefully, pushing his face against Aziraphale's chest, and suddenly they're embracing. He can feel Crowley's heartbeat, skittishly fast. 

'Angel...'

'It's alright, Crowley.'

Crowley's hair, that he's never consciously allowed himself to admire, is so close to Crowley's shoulder. It's easy to move his hand up, stroke a few strands back into place. Easy and right, and judging by how Crowley moves to look at him, welcome. 

He keeps going. 

Feels Crowley relax.

He holds him until he's asleep. Carries on stroking his hair. 

There's a moment when he's not sure if he's awake or asleep; the room is quiet and warm, filled with the low glow of the fire that knows better than to throw smoke into the room. Crowley has hooked a leg over his legs, tangling them together, and his hand is now resting on Aziraphale's hip. 

He looks beautiful enough, peaceful enough, that it might very well be a dream. 

He wants, oh how he wants, to kiss him. 

***

'Aziraphale?' There's a slurred quality to his voice that Aziraphale loves. It seems so intimate, somehow, to know what Crowley sounds like waking up. 

'I'm here.'

'We don't have to go out today.'

He agrees with Crowley for the sake of keeping him calm, and wonders for a moment if this is how it is for humans. Small, insignificant, huddled together for warmth and safety. He holds Crowley as though his mere presence will keep him safe. 

'We can stay here all day, dear boy. I'll get us some more wine later.'

It takes him a moment to realise the pressure he suddenly feels is Crowley's lips against his cheek; that the sudden absence of warmth is Crowley panicking and pulling back.   
'Sorry.'

'Don't be. Here...' He kisses Crowley before he can think himself out of it. 

A minute later and they've shifted so their lips meet. A couple of minutes later and they're kissing deeply, Crowley's tongue flickering into something forked and back again. 

They're silent after the kissing, turning it into stroking, touching, holding without the need for words. He's heard of humans falling back on love making when they're upset or hurting; thinks it might be what Crowley's asking for, but he remembers promising last night that he'd always give Crowley what he asks for. 

And this is easy. His whole body sings with the joy of it, the beauty of Crowley's golden eyes, the wonder of the sinuous way his friend - lover - moves alongside him. He can offer this much comfort, at least. 

Crowley takes his hand, guides it down his body until he's touching the demon just above his hip. The black fabric is rough under his hand, sweat damp already. 

'Can I?' He tugs gently at Crowley's cloths. 

'Nah. Leave it on,' and there's just enough bite that he realises it's not something up for discussion. 

He tries to be gentle. Crowley tries to hurry him, play down the possibility that any of this could hurt or not be what he wanted. Neither of them are sure what they're doing; theoretical knowledge is a long way away from the reality of it all. 

Although he thinks some of it is keeping Crowley safe. Helping to drive the darkness away for him. 

Everything in him wants to look, wants to admire. To see if the freckles across the back of his neck and up his arms track down inside his clothes; to see if the rest of him is dusted with the same fine hairs as his arms; to see how Crowley looks without barriers. 

Crowley offers nothing of himself - no skin to skin contact, nothing for Aziraphale to look at. And yet, he offers everything, tilting his head back as Aziraphale bites his neck and jaw, offering trust that Aziraphale won't hurt him as he closes his hand around Crowley's cock and strokes him. Offers a reciprocation that Aziraphale hadn't really expected, fumbling between his legs, fingers chill and urgent against flushed skin. Unskilled but wonderful. 

It doesn't last long. It can't, not with the newness, the strangeness of it all. 

He can hear Crowley's breath hitching, stuttering. Feel the way he's bucking his hips up into Aziraphale's hand, forcing the pace into something faster. See him coming apart and trusting Aziraphale to pick up the pieces. 

Crowley comes almost silently, teeth gritted as though he's forcing himself to stay silent. His come soaks through the robe, soaks Aziraphale's hand and he wishes he could touch, could see more clearly. 

They lay like that for a moment, Aziraphale's hand still around Crowley's cock, letting the world come back into focus. His own arousal feels remote for now, unimportant. 

'Hey. Hey, let me,' and Crowley frowns at the strangled sound of his own voice, clears his throat. 'Let me touch.'

As though he could ever resist that. 

And oh, apparently Crowley likes to touch, likes to slide his hand slick against Aziraphale's skin, likes to make him shout. 

'Crowley -'

'I'sss alright, angel. Got you.'

He comes with Crowley kissing him, Crowley holding him. 

They're allowed a few minutes of grace afterwards, tangled together, kissing, stroking, learning. He wants it to last forever. Wants to say to the demon 'please stay. Please let us do this tomorrow and tomorrow and forever.'

And then the noises outside spark up again; it's beginning to sound like a riot, and Crowley shudders in his arms and looks away, and it's so clear that this hasn't fixed anything. 

'I should go,' Crowley mutters. 

'I know.'

They're both too weak. 

The demon stays. For now.


End file.
